Free Room for Love by Sophie Pembroke Page B

or four hours to go.
    And tickets at least suggested people might be paying to attend the evening, which gave Carrie some comfort. But, since this was an official Avalon Inn event, did that mean she actually had to attend? She’d avoided last week’s, but she supposed she’d have to take part sometime. Except it had been a long day, and she’d been looking forward to a night in with Pusscat…
    Moira arrived next, incongruously carrying an iPod. “Finally, despite Stan’s best efforts, the playlist for the evening is ready.”
    Carrie watched as she settled the iPod into a dock attached to the speakers on either side of the room. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have those in 1944.”
    Moira shrugged. “Bet the people running the dances wished they did, though. Much easier to look after than a band.”
    “True,” Carrie said, wishing more brides were willing to be so pragmatic. It would make her job a lot easier. “It really is looking pretty impressive in here.”
    Grinning, Moira said, “Just wait until everybody gets here. Then you’ll see a sight. Speaking of which, time for me to go and get ready.” And with that, she bustled off through the door.
    In the end, it was just too tempting. As a compromise, Carrie changed out of her black suit and into a brown cotton pencil skirt and cream blouse, and curled up in one of the leather chairs in the drawing room that provided her with a good view of the lobby. With Pusscat dozing on the chair opposite her, Carrie flicked on her laptop, counted three new emails from Anna’s iPhone since she’d left and got back to work on her schedules.
    The dance night attendees arrived in ones and twos, and a rowdy group of four elderly gentlemen in what might have been their original service uniforms except they fit too well. Carrie vaguely remembered that demobbing involved giving them back, anyway.
    Each one in turn greeted Izzie on the reception desk with smiles and high spirits, handing over their tickets, or buying them on the spot if necessary. Izzie in turn was cheerful, efficient and obviously beloved by the guests.
    Carrie was amazed.
    When the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and, ignoring Anna’s emailed summary of their new agreement from that morning as it arrived in her inbox, followed the crowds into 1944.
    Suddenly, she wanted to know what kept the Seniors so tied to her inn.
    * * * *
    Nate didn’t know where his gran had found the costume, but he suspected eBay. She’d become quite the computer whiz since Granddad had died. Regardless, she showed up with it, every 40s night, and wouldn’t leave until he put it on. He’d given up the fight by this point.
    “Maybe you could ask Carrie if you could do this place up a bit,” Moira suggested, perched on the very edge of the summerhouse sofa. “If you decide to stay.” She was fishing. Gran always did like to know his exact plans, and he had to admit to finding a perverse pleasure in holding out on her.
    “I think she’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment. As you told me.” And despite his reluctance to fall in with Stan’s plan, Nate knew he’d have to find out how much worse the situation had become since Anna’s visit that morning.
    Nate sighed, straightened the collar of his ‘authentic replica American army shirt, circa 1944’ and tried to make his hair stay flat. If it wasn’t tidy enough to appease Gran, he knew from past experience she would come after him with a comb and some Brylcreem. He’d really like to try and avoid a side-parting tonight.
    “Besides,” he added, coming out of the bedroom, “I like it this way. It’s homey.”
    “It’s a mess.” Moira narrowed her eyes at him. “As is your hair. Come here, I brought my comb.”
    Nate sighed, but followed instructions and went to sit on the sofa. There was, he reflected as a slick of Brylcreem hit his scalp, something humiliating about being styled by your grandmother. Especially at the